American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E3 - Monsters
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 3: Monsters don't come from faerie tales. They're all around. They're inside. Get a glimpse of Ben's dodgy past. Check out mama monster Constance's stellar parenting. Ben and Tate define what rape is. Also: What is up with Rubber Man? Do you really want to know? Expect nightmares. Written in the style of the show for the avid fan, not the faint-of-heart. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Preludes & Nocturnes

This is **Episode 3** of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. You should read the previous episodes first or you may be confused. Check my Profile to find them.

* * *

**Monsters**

**1977 - Halloween night**

16-year-old Ben Harmon sat on the steps of the boys' home in handcuffs. People came and went in a rush, up and down the stairs, in and out of the quaint two-story home. Back and forth, back and forth. The red and blue lights of the nearby emergency vehicles flashed, washing out the candlelight from the Jack-o-lanterns on the porch.

Paramedics wheeled another stretcher out of the house. Ben couldn't see who was on it. When he tried to rise to get a better look, the policeman standing behind him put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him down again. He glared at the man. The officer gave him a cold look.

"Why'd you do it?" asked the cop. It wasn't an official tone; he sounded appalled.

Ben curled an evil smile at him just because he knew it would bother the cop. "Because I hate Halloween."

It was a lie but he wasn't going to spill his life story to some flatfoot who obviously didn't give a damn. He wouldn't understand anyway. Nobody would. Unless they spent their life in a place like Waverly's Foster Home for Wayward Boys, how could they know what it felt like? To have to deal with those people every day. Putting up with the combined shit of ten stupid boys, getting beat up, listening to the caretakers put the fault on Ben.

"You ground up glass and put it in brownies to feed to your friends because you hate Halloween?" the officer said.

Ben looked away from him, wishing the man would leave him alone. "They weren't my friends." He knew how that sounded and it irritated him more. "They're just a bunch of asshole kids."

Paramedics brought out another stretcher. It bounced on the on the steps and Mrs. Deene's arm flopped out. There were still brownie crumbs on her plump hand.

"You'll be lucky if nobody dies," the policeman said.

Ben ignored him. He thought maybe if he did the man would go away. But he didn't.

"What's the matter with you?"said the cop. "You hurt a lot of people. Don't you even care?"

"Don't you have police work to do?" said Ben.

The cop huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "You are my police work, son. After they get done cleaning up your mess, you and I are going for a ride."

Ben shifted in his cuffs. "Am I going to jail?"

Now the cop laughed. "I don't think so, pal. You're going to the nut-house."

The teenager didn't know what to think of that. Jail time had a certain amount of street rep to it. Being a mental patient just made you crazy. He wasn't crazy. He was just mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

"I'm not crazy," he said.

"Sure, pal," the officer responded. "You keep telling yourself that."

Another stretcher rolled by. Two policemen followed but they went over to where their fellow officer was keeping watch over Ben.

"That's the last one," said the tallest cop. "Christ on crutches. I think we used every ambulance in town."

The last ambulance started away with a short whoop of its siren. The cop behind Ben put his hand on the teen's shoulder. "Let's go. The folks at Kirkbride Hills are expecting you."

He helped Ben to his feet then steered the wayward boy to the squad car. Sirens wailed in the night.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2018 - 5 months before the earthquake**

Chad and Patrick sat on the king sized bed in Chad's room, propped by a wall of bolsters and matching throw pillows, eyes on the portable DVD player. Tate, in child guise, had started out seated between them but over the course of the movie had shifted till his head was on Chad's lap and his feet were in Pat's. He didn't ask permission to sprawl on everyone but no one told him to move either.

He was having trouble focusing on the movie. He was having trouble just staying awake. It wasn't that the movie was dull or that the time was even that late. He'd just been sleepier in general. It seemed to be the unfair trade-off for how his nightmares had stopped so suddenly. He barely remembered his dreams now. He was still completely uninformed that he was being medicated via evening snack.

He stifled a yawn. He needed to do something other than lay there or he'd fall asleep for sure. To stop himself picking at his sleeves he poked at Chad's nearest hand. He noticed the man was still wearing his wedding ring. Tate fidgeted with it drowsily. Chad glanced down briefly then went back to watching the movie.

Tate shifted a little but he couldn't see Patrick's left hand from where he was. The last time he'd seen Pat's wedding ring, Tate had given it to Violet to go play Frodo in an attempt to stop the gay couple from kidnapping her brothers. It made him hesitant to ask the man if he was wearing it. But he wanted to know. There seemed to be a solution to his dilemma but Tate couldn't figure it out.

"Pat?" he said finally. It was too much effort to sit up and look.

"Hm?"

"Are you wearing your ring?"

There was a long pause before Patrick answered. "Yeah."

Tate lay there an equally long moment, sewing his sluggish thoughts together. "Sorry I took it that time."

Chad looked down at him, brows inching up. Patrick shot the kid an odd look as well. Then they both looked at each other, each knowing intuitively what the other felt about the random apology.

Patrick blinked away his peculiar expression. "Yeah. Well. I got it back." He reflexively straightened the band with his thumb.

The movie filled the silence that followed. Tate fell asleep before it ended, right where he was. This left Chad and Patrick to wonder whether to move him or leave him.

"He's been nodding off a lot lately," Chad said during the end credits of the movie. "He was sleepwalking again last night."

Patrick frowned and didn't say anything. Putting pills into Tate's food was a subject they'd argued about several times and he didn't want to get into it again, especially with the kid laying right there.

"Why do you still wear it?" Chad asked after a bit.

Patrick looked down at his ring and thought about whether or not he wanted to go there. "I don't know," he said eventually. "It's part of who I am."

They fell silent for another stretch while the ending song wound itself down. Then Chad said: "Do you want to watch another movie?"

"What do we have left?" Pat asked.

Chad shifted a little so he could reach the red paper DVD sleeves that were on the bed. "There's-"

Tate muttered something. Thinking he'd woken up, Chad listened. But what he said made no sense. It was gibberish. Chad looked closer and saw that Tate's eyes were still mostly-closed. He wasn't awake but he was talking, sort of.

"Tate?" Chad asked.

"When the wolves come out of the walls," Tate said quite clearly. He didn't open his eyes. "It's all over."

Chad glanced over at Patrick who looked dour.

"Tate," Chad repeated. This time he shook the boy. "Wake up."

Tate blinked a few times. "Huh?"

"The movie's over. Time to get ready for bed."

Tate nodded and yawned then dragged himself off the bed. He nearly walked into the doorjamb on his way out.

Pat stared at Chad.

"All right!" Chad exclaimed finally, like his arm was being twisted. "You were right. There. Feel better? I was wrong. You were right. We'll take him off the God-damned pills tomorrow."

"You can't do that."

Chad boggled at him. "Jesus! Would you make up your mind?"

Patrick scooted to the edge of the bed. "He's been taking that shit for two months. You can't just stop. You're going to have to wean him off of it or-"

Chad didn't like the sound of that 'or'. "Or..?"

"It could make him really sick."

"Sick how?"

"That stuff causes nasty withdrawal," said Patrick. He stood up. "I told you taking anything from Ben was a bad idea."

Chad's eyes widened. "I _said_ I was wrong. Can you give it a rest, please? You know, I don't remember you saying anything about withdrawal when I asked you to look that stuff up so don't act so high and fucking mighty."

"I did tell you! You just didn't want to hear about it!" Pat sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm down. He really didn't want to get into a fight. "I'm going to bed." He turned to leave.

"His or yours?"

Chad regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Patrick paused only long enough to absorb the verbal blow. Then he left.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Welcome back. I hope you're finding your extended tour into suburban horror diverting. I'm probably rushing by posting this so soon after the last Episode ended but I've never been good at restraining myself when I have something to share. You should see me with candy.

The beginning segment was inspired by the conversation between Ben, Vivien, Chad and Patrick in AHS season 1. They were carving pumpkins when Ben said he never got to do that sort of thing as a kid. Chad asked him why not. Ben and Vivien exchanged looks and then she changed the subject. Patrick and Chad noticed it too; it wasn't at all subtle. So I started wondering what Ben's Halloweens were like.

They were exciting.

The name Kirkbride Hills is a combination of my favorite asylum architecture style (the Kirkbride) and the name of the mental hospital in _Nightmare on Elm Street pt. 3 _(Westin Hills). _Wolves in the Walls_ is a weird children's book by Neil Gaiman, who also authored _Coraline_ and the _Sandman_ series of comics. This chapter title, _Preludes & Nocturnes_, also happens to be a Neil Gaiman _Death_ graphic novel title.


	2. Chapter 2 - Hell

**2018 - 5 months before the earthquake**

"I think this is a big mistake," Dr. Harmon said.

Chad was unmoved. "I know what you think but that shit has turned him into a zombie," he said. He'd already told the therapist about a score of issues they'd had in the past week alone but he thought he'd throw one more on. "He couldn't figure out how to open a jar yesterday. A _jar_. Do you have any idea how depressing it is to see someone reduced to tears over simple mechanics?"

"He's only been on it for two months-"

"Give him another two and he'll be a complete vegetable." Chad frowned, suddenly suspicious. "Is that what you're aiming for?"

"Of course not." Ben sat forward in his rolling chair and propped his elbows on his thighs. "The goal was to suppress Tate's nightmares. From what we've seen, the plan worked. Am I right?"

Chad pursed his lips in a sour expression. "Yes."

"Well, what we need to do now is adjust his medication," the doctor said reasonably. "Taking him off cold turkey would be a lot worse than what you've described."

"Yes, well," said Chad. "It would have been nice to know about the withdrawal symptoms before we agreed to give it to him."

"You should consider just scaling back the dosage but if you're determined to take him off the zolpidemin, I can prescribe some hydrocodone for the symptoms and benzodiazepine to help him sleep. ProSom should work."

"You want us to give him two drugs to get him off of one?" Chad asked in a tone that questioned Ben's sanity.

Ben shrugged. "It's either that or four weeks of hell. It's your choice."

Chad crossed his ankles and folded his arms over his middle. He wanted to talk this over with Patrick but he'd refused to come. "You're sure this will work?"

"It will get him off the zolpidemin," said Dr. Harmon. "But the nightmares will come back and they'll probably be worse. It's one of the side effects of stopping usage. There's nothing we can do about that."

"Oh. Perfect. This just keeps getting better," Chad said. He thought it over then sighed in resignation. "Do I just swap out his pills? Or do I still have to keep giving him the other stuff?"

"Gradually decrease the zolpidemin dosage over the next two weeks," advised the therapist. He picked up a notepad and started writing. "After fourteen days you should only be giving him the hydrocodone and the ProSom."

Chad felt ill at ease but he was lost at sea where it came to prescription drugs. "How long do we give him those?"

"Four weeks," Ben said. "So keep giving them to him for two weeks after you stop the zolpidemin. You'll want to give him the hydrocodone every eight hours. The ProSom should be taken at bedtime." He tore the sheet off and handed it to Chad. "Here are the instructions. I'll get you the prescriptions."

... .

Tate crouched on the floor of the bathroom, clutching his head. He didn't know it but he was over a week into Dr. Harmon's detox plan. It might have helped him to know. Everything he was experiencing might have made more sense.

He typically had strong mood swings but his feelings were all over the map the past few days. One minute he felt great: Energetic, happy and optimistic. Everything in existence was perfect. The next minute he was sure there were monsters everywhere lurking just out of sight. They crept through the ceilings and whispered behind the wallpaper. He didn't know where they came from but he knew they were worse than any ghost he'd encountered. They could eat him up.

The nightmares had returned with a vengeance. Pain, blood, violence, death. And so much decay. Sometimes he woke up screaming, sitting straight up in bed. He couldn't remember those dreams. He didn't even try. The last two nights he hadn't slept at all. He found he still felt tired, just like he would if he were alive and sleep-deprived. Stuff like that made it really hard to believe he was dead sometimes. Times like now.

"And much of madness and more of sin," he whispered to himself. He stared unblinking at the floor. Reciting poems kept his mind busy so he couldn't think too much. "And horror... the soul of the plot. But see amid the rot a crawling... a crawling shape intrude."

He let go of his head and got to his feet. "It writhes... it writhes..." He looked in the mirror and saw a wild-eyed child looking back at him. "The mimes become its food. And seraphs sob at vermin fangs... in human... gore imbued."

He put his hands on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror, closer to the strange little boy in it. Then he was standing on the sink, his hands pressed to the glass. He let his forehead rest against it and he shut his eyes for a moment. A tidal wave of blood washed over his thoughts. The heads of people he'd seen die bobbed and tumbled over each other in the wave, screaming in rage and pain. Drowning in their own blood.

Tate opened his eyes and blinked hot tears away. "All hail the conquering worm."

Then he gave a primal scream and pounded on the on the mirror with his fists till cracks formed in the glass. Jagged shards cut his hands but he kept pounding. Blood spattered the sink, the walls. It ran down the broken mirror.

The door flew open and Chad rushed in, drawn by the destruction and noise. When he saw Tate he grabbed him, putting one arm around the boy's middle and the other over his arms at the elbows. He quickly carried him out of the bathroom, brushing past Moira as he went. She stepped back a little to give them room.

Tate screamed hysterically and thrashed so frantically that Chad nearly dropped him. To maintain control he sat down - harder than he wanted to - and repositioned his grip so that he had Tate's back pressed to his chest. He caught the boy's flailing arms again and held them down, ignoring the blood for now.

"Tate," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. It was a feat considering how freaked out he was over the boy's outburst. "Tate. Breathe."

In his hysteria Tate completely believed what he saw and felt. He was trapped. He couldn't get away. He struggled but he was just a little boy and Chad was bigger than he was. It wasn't easy for Chad to hold onto him but he managed. Eventually Tate exhausted himself and collapsed, sobbing.

Chad didn't know what else to do other than keep holding him. Then he noticed Moira.

"What are you staring at?" he demanded. "Go clean up the bathroom. There's glass everywhere."

The old woman frowned. "What's wrong with him?"

"They cancelled Sesame Street," Chad said snidely. He didn't have the time or patience for prying questions.

The maid gave him a sour look and went into the bathroom.

He loosened his grip and turned Tate around. The boy buried his face in Chad's shoulder. He was still crying but he wasn't making any noise now. Chad could feel the way the silent sobs wracked the little body he held and it made his stomach churn. He wanted to call for Patrick - he could use the assistance - but he didn't want to assume responsibility for Tate's emotional breakdown. And Patrick would blame him, he knew. Mostly because they both knew Chad was at least partly to blame.

So he awkwardly pushed himself up off the floor, bringing Tate up with him. The boy clung to him, making the task a little easier. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said as he carried him to the stairs.

By the time Chad got him to the upstairs bathroom Tate had calmed down. Chad erred on the side of caution and kept the boy faced away from the mirror. He sat him down on the closed toilet then he looked at Tate's hands. He hadn't healed them; they were still dripping blood.

Chad thought he could trust the boy long enough to go to the medicine cabinet. He pulled out bandages and medical tape and ointments and thought again about how he should really be calling Patrick. The man was an EMT, for Christ's sake.

Tate sat on the toilet staring at the blood collecting on the floor. It was pretty. Pretty little red rain drops. Nothing was quite like blood. When it ran it was one color. When it pooled it was another. When it dried it turned a whole new shade and got flakey. But it was prettiest when it was fresh.

He'd finger painted with it once, on some cardboard. But it was too hard to keep the wounds open long enough to get much done; they kept swelling shut. He thought he could paint with what was dripping out of his hands now. Paint rhymed with taint. It's what they'd called him in school: Taint.

He felt like he was wrapped in cotton. The wounds on his hands didn't hurt. The painkillers he didn't know he was on made the sensation completely negligible. He figured he must be sleeping. His nightmares were so real these days, this had to be one of them.

"Why can't I wake up?" he asked.

Chad glanced over. "You're not asleep."

The tone was mild but the words stabbed into Tate like a hot knife regardless. There was no waking up. There was no getting out. There was just a forever of fighting back everything that had, in life, shredded him from the inside out. Fresh tears slid down his face.

"Is this hell?"

Chad stopped pawing through the medical supplies. He didn't answer immediately but looked at himself in the mirror instead. Then he really thought about the question. Finally he said, quietly, "Yes."

Despair welled up inside Tate. He already knew the answer but hearing someone else confirm it brought him so much anguish. The pain inside was like a hunger pang only there was no urge to fill it. Nothing could. It just hurt. He hiccupped a sob and pressed his hands to his eyes in a futile effort to stop the tears.

Chad went over to him. "Don't do that," he said gently. He caught Tate's wrists. "You're getting blood everywhere."

"I wanna die."

Chad sighed and put his arms around the boy. "You already did."

Tate wrapped his arms around Chad's waist and really started to cry then. It was a heart-wrenching, tortured sound to hear anyone make. It brought tears to Chad's eyes.

The door opened and Patrick stuck his head in. Chad looked over and, seeing him, was flooded with relief. For the past few minutes he'd been urging the other man to join them. He'd almost given up hope that he'd come.

Patrick saw the mess of medical supplies, the blood and the state of the people in the bathroom and tried to make sense of it all. "What happened?" He came all the way into the room and shut the door.

Chad didn't know where to begin. Tate's sorrow was contagious. "He had a meltdown. Can you do something about his hands? He's not healing himself..."

Pat took a few things from the supplies on the counter and brought them over to where Tate sat. The boy's crying jag had nearly run its course. By the time Patrick had gathered towels and wetted a washcloth Tate had fallen silent again. Chad released him and went to the sink to get out of Pat's way and to wash off his hands. He tried to ignore the blood that was all over his Gucci shirt.

"Does it hurt?" Pat asked.

Tate shook his head. He was staring at the floor again.

Patrick patched up the cuts and bandaged Tate's hands. Then he cleaned the blood off. Chad came back over to help, tackling the mess on the floor while Patrick cleaned up the kid. Once everything was clean again and the medical supplies were put away, Patrick looked at Chad.

"Bring the DVD player to Tate's room," he said. "Let's watch something. Something upbeat."

Chad nodded and left to go change and collect the portable entertainment. Patrick went over to Tate. He thought about asking him to come along but after consideration he bent and scooped him up instead. Tate didn't resist; he just sagged against the man's chest. Pat carried him out of the bathroom.

... .

* * *

Author's Note:

This is Chad's idea of helping someone. Imagine if he wanted really wanted to mess with them.

So as the cover art hints, this episode's kind of Tate-centric. The poem he was trying to remember in the bathroom is called "_The Conquering Worm_" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Next chapter: Flashbacks and therapy.


	3. Chapter 3 - Mommie Dearest

**1986 **

It was late but Tate could still hear the television. He was supposed to be sleeping but they had a one-story home now and the noise was keeping the 9-year-old awake. He got out of bed and left his room, carrying his Darth Vader action figure with him for company. He heard his mother laugh and then he heard the voice of the man she'd brought home. The visitor made a joke and Constance laughed again. It was a fake laugh, Tate knew. She only laughed like that when she was with a man she wanted to kiss.

He passed Addie's door. He could hear her talking to her imaginary friends. He went to the living room and stood in the doorway. The couch was positioned with its back to the door. He could see the grown-ups sitting on it but they couldn't see him. An old movie lit up the television. Constance sat right next to her man friend in the center of the sofa. His arm was around her shoulders. The stranger hugged her closer and said something real quiet in her ear. She made that phony laugh again.

"Mama," Tate said. "I'm thirsty."

Both of the adults looked around at him. The man smiled at him. Tate didn't smile back. Constance looked irritated. It was the fifth time Tate had come out to interrupt her 'business meeting'. She didn't want to interrupt it longer to punish the boy; that might ruin the night altogether.

"All right, sweetheart," she said, forcing a smile. "Wait there."

She got up but she paused to brush her fingers on the man's cheek. "I'll only be a minute."

Tate hated the man. Constance went into the kitchen. The man looked at Tate. He was trying to think of something to say but he wasn't good with children, especially other people's kids. So he just looked back to the television. Tate lifted his Darth Vader and pretended to cut the man's head off with the tiny red light saber.

Constance returned from the kitchen with a toddler cup full of red Kool-aid. Tate was too old for a toddler cup but it was the only type of cup she would let him take to bed so he accepted it. He took a drink. It was cold and sweet and made him feel a little better. Mama still loved him best.

"Go on, now," she said, brushing his hair back behind an ear. "Take it to mama's room and put on the TV. Hurry up."

Tate beamed. He didn't get to watch TV in her bedroom often. She gave him a kiss then pushed him out of the room.

Two hours later Constance and her date stumbled into the bedroom, arms wrapped around each other as they kissed. It was only then that they remembered Tate. The boy was fast asleep on the foot of the bed in front of the television. One arm dangled off the end of the bed. His sippy cup was on the floor.

"Should we move him?" the man asked.

Constance smiled up at her gentleman. "Oh, don't worry about him," she assured as she pulled him toward the bed. "I put some Valium in his juice. He'd sleep through an earthquake."

Soon they were making love. Tate slept through it. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

...

Tate woke long before Constance did. The man was gone. The grown-ups had been drinking the night before and his mother was determined to sleep it off. Tate wanted breakfast. Addie and Beau were hungry too but his mother had forbidden him to do anything in the kitchen without supervision, ever since he'd accidentally set the stove on fire. She wouldn't even let him make a bowl of cereal.

The longer she slept, the madder he got. When it was nearly lunchtime he decided to wake her up. He went to his room and got his noisiest digger toy and carried it into her room. He sat down right next to the bed as close to her head as he could get. Then he sounded the air horn and rammed the truck into the bed frame. He kept pushing the button, again and again. Honk, honk, honk.

He started to enjoy what he was doing and forgot why he was doing it. So it was a surprise to him when Constance sat up and snatched the digger away. Then she grabbed his arm. Her nails bit into his skin, making him pout.

"What's the matter with you?" she growled. "I am tryin' to sleep!"

Tate tried to shrink back from her anger but she pulled him closer. "I'm hungry," he said in a small voice.

"It's not time to eat!" Constance swung her legs out of bed and stood, hauling the boy up to his feet with her. He was in big trouble and he knew it. She pulled him toward the closet. He tried to tug away from her but she squeezed his arm tighter. He started to cry. She dropped the truck and yanked the closet door open.

"No, mama, no!" Tate whimpered. He grabbed her nightgown.

"Why do you do this?" she shrieked over him. "Why do you make me be mean to you? I want to be a sweet mama but you just won't let me!"

She pried his hand off her nightie and used his arm to sling him into the closet. He tripped over the shoes on the floor and fell into the dresses that hung above. They kept him from hitting his head on the wall like last time but he still went into immediate hysterics. He hadn't seen any monsters since they'd moved out of the old Victorian house but he knew bad things hid in dark places. He tried to scramble out of the closet but she slammed the door in his face.

He grabbed the handle but she'd already locked it. He beat on the door. "Mama, let me out!" he sobbed. "I'll be good! I'll be good!"

"Shut up!" Constance screamed through the door. She slapped the wood hard enough to sting her palm. "Shut up or I'll get the belt!"

She used the threat more often than she used the tool. She'd only hit him with it once and that was when she'd caught him and Addie facing each other down, armed with scissors. She'd beaten them both for that fight. But the threat worked like a charm. Tate quieted; she could barely hear him sniffling.

She let herself relax, only then noticing how wound up he'd made her get. She swiped tears from her cheeks then she looked at the truck grumpily. She picked it up and carried it over to her trashcan and dropped it in. Then she went back to bed.

**...**

**2018 - 4 months before the earthquake**

Tate sat on the black leather couch in Ben's office. He had his arms spread out, propped on the back. His feet were on the floor, knees parted wide. Everything about his body language said he was wide open. But it was a lie. He hadn't said a word to the doctor since he sat down.

Dr. Harmon regarded the teenager calmly, notepad and pencil in hand. They'd been sitting there for five minutes in silence and he thought it was about time to change that. "That's an interesting shirt."

The shirt in question was a pale green tee worn over a long-sleeved thermal shirt. The t-shirt had blocky faded white letters that read: _Stare at me in disgust if you want to blow me._

Tate tipped his head but his expression didn't change. "I was going to wear the one that says 'Fuck off' but I knew we had a session today. I thought you might think I was trying to tell you something."

Ben knew Chad had followed his directions in regards to the step-down plan. The therapist had been seeing Tate weekly to track his progress and help guide him through the aftermath of quitting the sleep medication. There had been some difficult sessions and even a couple of unscheduled ones to handle the wild behavior Tate had exhibited over the past month. Ben had tried to several times to change Chad's mind about the medication but he was inflexible.

This was the first week the teen was off pain-killers. In a normal person Dr. Harmon would expect irritability, sullenness, depression. But Tate was anything but normal. The demeanor he presented was difficult for the doctor to interpret.

"So you wore a shirt that will make people want to look away from you?"

Tate dimpled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No. I was hoping maybe somebody would suck my dick."

Ben felt like he was playing chess only he couldn't see the layout of the board. He didn't like that. He thought about digging deeper into the mindset behind the shirt but he could sense he'd only get a bullshit answer at the moment. So he went on moving pawns. "Are you thinking about sex a lot lately?"

"I think about it all the time, doc," Tate said. "I'm thinking about it right now." He twisted a lock of his dirty blond hair around his finger absently. "I was a virgin when I died."

"How do you feel about that?" asked the therapist.

"It fucking sucks," Tate said emphatically. "You know, maybe I wouldn't think about sex so much if I got some before I died. Do you think about sex all the time, Doctor Harmon?"

Ben idly rotated his office chair side to side while he thought. "More than when I was alive. But I have sex lot less now."

That caught Tate's interest. "Do you have sex with Mrs. Harmon?"

The doctor was blindsided by the question. "I'm not comfortable discussing my wife with you, Tate."

Tate's shoulders sagged. He'd thought he was about to hear something interesting. "Oh. I understand. It's because I slept with her, huh?"

Ben stared at the teen. Tate looked back at him with dark eyes devoid of emotion.

"You didn't sleep with her," Ben said. Just saying it made him angry but he slipped tight restraints around his feelings. "You _raped_ her."

"I looked that word up. It's only rape if you force them to do it."

Ben's poker face took a hit. "Tate. This is not a conversation I want to have with you."

Tate lowered his chin and put on his sweet face. "But I think we should. It's been... what? Six years now? Don'tcha think it's time we took that skeleton back out of the closet?"

Ben's jaw set. He wasn't going to let his patient put him in checkmate so easily. He put the notepad and pencil down. "Fine. Let's talk."

"Rape is an act of sex forced on another person," Tate said. He settled a hand on his hip. "I didn't force her to do anything. She wanted to do it. I just walked into the room and she was like... 'Hey. You look fucking hot in that rubber suit. You wanna screw?' and I was like... okay." He looked hangdog. "Sorry I didn't say no but, I mean, your wife _is_ a babe."

Ben was too stunned and enraged to speak.

Tate took that as a signal to go on. "I didn't know I'd get her pregnant. I'm dead. What're the chances, you know?"

Ben forced himself to relax the death-grip he had on the arms of his chair. As infuriated as he was, what Tate was saying made too much sense to ignore. "You expect me to believe she wanted to have sex with you?" His voice cracked with the strain of emotion.

Tate shrugged. "It's the truth. Ask her. I never hurt her. I think I made her cum. Can girls do that? She looked like she did."

"She thought you were me!"

"It's not my fault your wife can't tell one dick from another."

Ben had the chair in a death-grip again. He really wanted to kick the teen's ass. But he wasn't going to let the urge control him.

"Seriously, Doctor Harmon," said Tate. "I'd never hurt anybody in your family."

Ben wrestled with himself inwardly. He wanted to hold onto the indignation and rage. But he couldn't ignore the logic in Tate's words. He ran a hand over his face. "Why were you even in there to begin with?"

"You went to set the house on fire," Tate shrugged again. "I was just making sure somebody was there to help your family if you did."

Ben's expression pinched. "I wasn't in control-"

Tate sat up a little. "So you're saying I should accept that you had no control over what you were doing but you're going to blame me for sleeping with your wife when she pulled me into bed?" An eerie hunger lit his dark eyes. "You've worn the suit, doc. You know what it can do."

Tremendous guilt punched through Ben. He looked away.

Tate smiled, satisfied, and sank back into the couch. He put the smile away when Ben looked back over at him.

"I really am sorry though," the teen said sincerely. "It's a total shit thing to do, sleeping with a guy's wife. But I didn't really know you then and I never had a chick say something like that to me before. Women, you know? They say all the right things to make you hot for them."

Hayden registered in Ben's thoughts and he felt even guiltier. It was what happened with him and the college student: She'd said everything right. Everything he wanted to hear. Everything he needed to hear.

Ben took a deep breath and looked over at his patient, tears in his eyes. "I forgive you, Tate."

Tate blinked. His brows scrunched and he looked pained, then confused. He hadn't expected or even hoped for that. The idea hadn't even entered his mind that Ben might actually forgive him.

"Really?" Tate blinked rapidly but tears leaked out anyway.

Ben seized the teen's moment of unexpected weakness and shored himself up with it. "Really. As much as I hate what you did, I accept your apology."

Tate hunched over and hugged his middle. "Why?"

"Because I understand." Ben looked away to the windows. "I don't want to but I do. God knows I've done worse."

Tate looked at him with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Like what?"

Ben didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was thick with emotion. "For starters, I got a nineteen year old pregnant and tried to talk her into aborting the baby. My own child." He didn't want to think about everything vile he'd done since then. Not in specifics. "I hurt the people I care about, all the time. I can't seem to help it. I don't want to but somehow... it keeps happening. The more I care, it seems, the worse I hurt them."

Tate smiled through his tears. "Well, I guess that means you don't care about me that much. You haven't fucked me over."

Ben didn't say anything but shifted uncomfortably.

"You're scaring me, Doctor Harmon." Tate said. Then he laughed. "Well, if you did do something... I know I deserve it. I totally fucked everything up. I think it's really cool that you even want to talk to me." He also figured whatever it was couldn't be that bad if he wasn't aware of it.

"Don't be too grateful," Ben said dryly. "With our track record it's only a matter of time before one of us fucks over the other one. Again."

"That reminds me," Tate said. He pointed to his shirt. "You owe me a blowjob. I distinctly saw disgust on your face at _least_ five times when I told you all that shit."

Ben laughed, taken off guard by the comment. "I'll take it off your therapy bill."

"Technically you owe me five blowjobs," Tate noted.

"I'll treat you for free," Ben offered with a smile.

Tate sighed theatrically. "I guess I'll accept that. I know I can't afford what you charge." He smiled then, dimples showing.

"Just don't let the word get out," Ben said. "Or everyone will expect a discount."

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Mama monster Constance scares me more than any other character on the show. The title of this chapter is also the name of a freaky movie about Joan Crawford's questionable parenting skills. I've never looked at wire hangers the same since that film...

I re-watched the AHS Season 1 Pilot episode after I finished writing the therapy session, just to see how Tate's version of the rape stacked up to what the show presented. If you believe Tate, it puts that whole scene in a different light. Not saying you necessarily _should_ believe him... Just if.

Check out my Profile for my music playlist. Next time's monsters of the moment: Ghouls, mediums and ghosts (of course).


	4. Chapter 4 - Who's Your Daddy

**2018 - One minute after the earthquake**

Hayden slowly uncurled and eyed the ceiling uncertainly. When she was sure it wasn't going to fall in on her she sat up. She was nude and straddling Charles on the operating table. Nora was beside them, her dressing gown half off and her husband's hand between her thighs. Hayden dropped the scalpel she'd used to stab the doctor with. He had several wounds in his chest and was staring vacantly upward.

Nora pulled away from them and set to fixing her robe. She wasn't entirely sure what had just happened but she was coming back to herself and things were Not Right.

"Where ya going?" Hayden asked. She beckoned the blonde with a bloody hand. "Let's go again."

Nora looked at the naked woman on Charles and knotted her belt around her waist. Then she looked at the bloody mess that was her husband. He was still just laying there. Nora frowned. "You killed him."

"He can't die, sweetie," Hayden said. "We're ghosts. He'll wake up soon. Come on."

Nora blinked a few times. She couldn't focus on what Hayden was saying. Something was wrong. Something had happened, somewhere upstairs. "No. Thank you," she demurred. She turned and drifted toward the stairs. "There's something wrong. Something's... wrong."

"Mind if I go for another round?" Hayden called after her.

Nora paused to regard the pair on the table. She cared a lot less about that than she did the urgent feeling she was getting thanks to the fallen beam in the entryway. "Do what you wish." She floated upstairs.

Hayden looked back down at Charles. He still hadn't moved. She'd killed her ghostly lovers many times and they all sprang back within a few minutes, usually in just seconds. She'd never been with Charles before though so she wasn't sure if this lag was abnormal or just him. She gave him a little shake. He didn't respond. She kissed him. No reaction. She bit his lip. Nothing.

She sat up again and frowned. Then he blinked. He blinked a few more times. Then he frowned.

"You stabbed me," he accused.

She smiled. "So pop a pill." She ground her hips against his. "Let's go again."

Charles gave a lethargic shrug and reached for her. Her smile widened. She leaned in to kiss him.

...

Hayden felt guilty when she went looking for Shelly later. It hadn't occurred to her till then that the baby might have been frightened by the earthquake. But she needn't have worried. Shelly was playing ball with Beauregard. Neither seemed upset. Hayden rolled the ball for Beau a few times then collected her baby.

She carried the dusty tot upstairs and gave her a bath. Then she put Shelly in a fancy vintage dress she'd found in the attic. It reminded Hayden of the dresses the old China dolls wore. Then she went to Ben's office. She got a piece of paper and pencil and sat down on the floor at the coffee table. She put Shelly in her lap and placed the paper in front of the baby. Shelly patted it with a stiff-fingered little hand. Hayden took her other little hand and helped her hold the pencil.

"We're going to write a letter," she said sweetly to the baby. Shelly babbled back at her.

Using Shelly's hand to move the pencil over the paper, she wrote a short letter and signed it with Shelly's name. Then she turned the baby on her lap and used an ancient diaper pin to clip the note to the bib of the baby's dress. She kissed Shelly on top of her head. She put the baby on the floor with an old teddy bear and her red blanket. Then she left.

...

Shelly was still there when Ben found her a couple of hours later. His first reaction to the sight of the gray-skinned baby was revulsion. Then he noticed the fancy dress, and the blanket and toy. He moved closer cautiously. He had no idea whether the thing would attack. But the baby just sat there watching him with foggy eyes.

He crouched down beside her, curiosity growing as his wariness eased. He saw the folded note pinned to the baby's clothes. "What the..?"

He reached for it cautiously. When she didn't bite him he tugged the note free and opened it.

_Hello Daddy._

_Why did you want to forget me?_

_Why did you want to KILL ME?_

_I love you._

_~ Shelly_

Ben lowered the paper and stared at the ghoulish baby.

"Uh-uh," he said. He crumpled the letter. A cyclone of feelings tore up his insides. "No. No."

He stood up and stalked away but he stopped after only a few steps. Then he turned and pointed an accusing finger at the creature on the floor. "You are NOT mine."

The baby looked at him with those dead, white eyes and babbled back at him.

There were tears in Ben's eyes, tears of anger and doubt and shame and denial. "You're not mine! You're NOT MINE!"

Shelly had never been yelled at before. She didn't like it. She cried.

Ben felt even worse because she sounded exactly like any other baby. "No... No. You're not mine."

Unconsoled, Shelly cried even louder.

"You're not my baby!" Ben yelled through his tears. He disappeared, leaving Shelly wailing on the floor.

A few moments later Hayden came and picked the screaming tot up. She hugged her and the baby calmed down some. "Shh. Shh. It's okay. Momma's here. Daddy can't run forever. It's a small house."

**...**

**2018 - Morning after the earthquake**

Michael and Father Jeremiah sat on the edge of the boy's bed together. Michael was still in his pajamas. He hugged his stuffed dog toy, Ragamuffin. Michael didn't know what the word meant. He'd just heard Mama Constance use it before and he liked it.

"She is dead," Jeremiah explained patiently. "But she's not gone. Her body will be buried but she'll still be here, in spirit."

"Mama Constance is a ghost?" Michael asked. "Is she invisible?"

"She's a ghost. But she's very visible. She's making breakfast, in fact."

"When I die will I be a ghost?"

Father Jeremiah tousled his hair. "You're not going to die for a very long time."

Michael sucked on his lower lip. Then: "Is she still going to take care of me?"

Jeremiah nodded. "She and I both will. She has a thing called a will that names me as your legal guardian in the event of her death. But she isn't going anywhere."

The little boy made a funny face as he mulled that over. "Does that mean you're my daddy now?"

Father Jeremiah blinked a few times. "I.. well. Yes, I suppose it does. But it won't change things at all. Mama Constance will always be your Mama Constance."

"I'm hungry. Can we have breakfast now?"

"Yes, we can," said Jeremiah. "Let's go see if Mama Constance needs help setting the table. But remember: She still doesn't really understand she's dead yet. It may take her some time. We'll have to be patient."

Michael nodded and crawled out of bed.

**...**

**2018 - Two days after the earthquake**

It was early evening when Billie Dean's taxi pulled up outside of Constance Langdon's house. She'd given that address to the cabbie to avoid questions about her business at Murder House. The driver set her suitcases down beside her which pulled her attention off of the two houses long enough to pay him. She smiled and thanked him. As he drove away she looked at the homes again.

To her eyes, Murder House had always been shrouded in darkness. The negative energy was impossible for her to miss. That miasma had grown during the time she'd been away. It had spread so far, the Langdon property had also been overtaken by the darkness. It covered both homes in a thick fog that pushed at the boundaries of reality on all sides. The seething mass engulfed the two properties and had the electrical charge of a pending monsoon storm.

Billie Dean had never seen anything like it. It made her nervous. But this was no time to show weakness. She had work to do. She picked up her bags and toted them up the sidewalk. Entering the fog was like stepping inside Murder House. It had the same cloying, unclean feel to it. She had no doubt that it was from the same source. But what had caused it to spread so far?

The medium carried her bags to the front porch where she set them down and took a moment to straighten her twill skirt and blazer. Then she rang the bell.

A man answered. Billie Dean could see him as other saw him but she saw more. She saw a shroud over him, a separate seeming that enveloped him like a dark aura. His eyes were as black as night, deep as infinity. Large black raven's wings were folded close to his sides. He was beautiful and frightful to behold.

"Angel," she whispered in awe.

"I beg your pardon?" Father Jeremiah asked.

Billie Dean blinked and the vision faded. "I'm sorry," she smiled. "Hi. I'm Billie Dean Howard. Is Constance home?"

The man looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to respond but he was cut off when Constance crowded in.

"Billie Dean!" she said with a broad smile. "You didn't tell me you were going to be in town! Jeremiah, this is Billie Dean. She's an old friend of the family. Billie Dean, this is Father Jeremiah. He's Michael's live-in tutor and caregiver."

Billie Dean's smile evaporated the moment she laid eyes on Constance. She knew instantly that the woman was dead.

Constance didn't notice her stare. "Well, don't just stand there! Come inside. We'll have some tea. Jeremiah? Bring her bags in, would you?"

The blonde woman breezed away from the door. Billie Dean looked quizzically at the priest who gave her a small smile. He stepped out onto the porch and waited for her to enter before bringing her luggage in.

"So tell me," Billie Dean asked as she followed Constance through the house to the kitchen. She moved slowly, taking in the feel of the house. "What happened?"

She made her way into the kitchen where Constance was putting the kettle on. "Did you hear about the quake? It opened a sinkhole in the back yard next door."

Billie Dean circled the table, eyes on the woman at the stove. "I meant what happened to you."

Constance turned a little to look over her shoulder at her friend curiously. "What do you mean?"

The medium pressed her palms together. She'd seen this sort of confusion before, in others. "Honey, you're dead."

Constance's smile dissolved into a frown. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm as alive as you are."

Billie Dean crossed the kitchen to stand right before her friend. "No. You're not." She locked eyes with Constance and reached to take her hands. "I know a spirit when I see one. They look different to me than the living. I'd never confuse a monkey with a human... or a human for a spirit."

For the first time since the earthquake Constance's confidence wavered. Father Jeremiah and Michael had both been acting very peculiar but what didn't make sense to her she didn't pay attention to. She had known Billie Dean for years and trusted her. But she didn't want to believe what the medium said.

"But that can't be," said Constance, bewildered. "I'm in my house."

Billie Dean squeezed her hands gently. "I don't know what's going on but there's a very dark energy over this place. Whatever has a hold on your old home has followed you here."

"I put the bags in the guest room," Jeremiah said as he came into the kitchen. "I don't know how long you're here for but I can take the downstairs couch for now."

The two women looked over at him and he got the impression he was interrupting something.

"I'll just-" He motioned over his shoulder in the general direction of the front room.

"No," Billie Dean smiled. She put a manicured hand out to him. "Stay. There are things we need to discuss."

* * *

Author's Note:

Some might say Ben's reaction to Shelly is harsh. I say it's a positive sign that he didn't try to kill her on sight.

In the show I noticed that some of the ghosts' more prominent character traits got even stronger after their death. Hayden got hornier and angrier. Chad got more obsessive over the house and cleanliness in general. Nora can't stop thinking about her baby. It'll be interesting to see what parts of Constance's personality magnify...

Check out my Profile for my playlist. Next chapter: Monsters love to scare kids.


	5. Chapter 5 - Little Monsters

**2018 - Two days after the earthquake** **(cont.)**

Michael stepped up onto the porch of the old Victorian and rang the doorbell. He wasn't supposed to be over there by himself but Mama Constance and Father Jeremiah were busy with the strange lady and Michael wanted to play. So he had sneaked out and gone next door.

The door opened and Tate - Ethan to Michael - was there. He looked surprised to see Michael. "Hi. Where's Mama Constance?"

Michael shrugged. "She's busy. Wanna play?"

Ethan peeked out the door in the direction of the neighboring house and then stepped back to let the other boy in. Michael went inside. The other boy shut the door.

"Wow!" Michael said. "What happened?"

He went over to the fallen beam in the center of the foyer and nudged it with the toe of his sandal. It didn't move. Ethan came over too and looked down at it. "The earthquake made it fall. Come here."

Ethan led the way into the formal sitting room. "Look." He pointed to a big crack in the plaster that went from the ceiling to midway down the wall. "It did that too."

Michael looked at the crack but it wasn't as interesting as the fallen beam. Then he saw the dolls. "What are those?"

Ethan looked over and made a face. "They're ugly. That's what they are."

And they were. They lined a black shelf above the sideboard: A row of five antique dolls in fancy, age-yellowed dresses. Their vacant blue eyes and wide dark eyebrows made them look like they were judging whoever passed before them. One's eyes had succumbed to gravity and were rolled so far down that the blue irises hardly showed. Three had slightly open mouths that had teeth in them. The fact that they weren't smiling made them look even creepier.

Michael tipped his head. "Why do they have teeth?"

"So they can bite you," Ethan said. Then he giggled.

Michael didn't think that was funny. "Dolls can't bite people."

"Those ones can," said Ethan with utmost sincerity. "At night they come down off the shelf, looking for somebody to bite. It's why I can't have sleepovers."

Michael looked at his friend, unsure. He didn't believe the story. Not really. "Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh," Ethan said. The he lit up, all excited. "Hey! You want to see something cool?"

"Okay."

"Wait here," said Ethan. "I'll go get it."

He ran from the room, leaving the other little boy in the sitting room by himself. Alone with the dolls.

Michael eyed them. They stood there, staring blankly into space. He inched a little closer, thinking he might give one a poke to see if it would move. He couldn't quite reach them; he was too short. He put a hand on the sideboard and stretched up on his tiptoes. His fingers touched the old lace that lined the hem of the red dress that the middle doll wore.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Patrick said somewhere behind him.

He turned and saw the man in the doorway, coming his way. He looked angrier than anyone Michael had seen. The fear he'd felt the first time he'd heard the man's voice through the fence came stampeding back. He scooted away from the dolls.

"Get out of here, Michael! Now!"

Michael didn't need to be told twice. He ran, right past Patrick and out of the sitting room.

Patrick didn't watch to see where he went. His target had never been Michael. He had his furious gaze locked on Rubber Man, who'd been creeping up on the boy. Pat crossed the room with his fists clenched.

"What the fuck is your problem, Ben?!" he demanded.

He yanked the hood off.

There was no one inside. The bondage suit was standing on its own.

There was a crash from the doorway. Tate had brought his box of treasures down from the attic to share with Michael. Seeing the black rubber suit standing there on its own had shocked him as much as it had Patrick. The box had slipped through his hands and hit the floor. Filched silverware, photos and trinkets scattered over the floor.

Quick as a blink Rubber Man grabbed the fireplace poker from the hearth. Patrick fell back a step and for the first time in years felt fear. He didn't remember dying. He definitely didn't want an instant replay that he could. But he had no idea how to fight something that simply didn't exist. He tensed up, ready to defend himself. Rubber Man advanced on him.

Anger surged up in Tate suddenly, thawing his frozen limbs. Without conscious thought he assumed his older form. He balled up his fists and with a look of deep, resentful concentration he stared at the bondage suit monster that was menacing Patrick. His form flickered and he disappeared briefly.

He reappeared and concentrated even harder, brows crunched down in a deadly scowl. Rubber Man hesitated. It lowered the poker a little. Tate trembled with the force of his concentration. He disappeared again. When he reappeared next, he was inside the suit.

It took effort to let go of the poker. When he did, he threw it down with such force that it dug a gouge into the hardwood floor. He could feel the suit pulsing against his skin. It felt disgusting. Alive. He really hated the way it felt against his private parts. It had never felt like this before. He wanted to take it off but he was afraid to just release it.

"We need to lock this thing up," Tate said.

Patrick nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, we do. Right now."

...

Michael ran. He didn't know Ethan's daddy liked the dolls so much or he wouldn't have tried to touch one. He stopped running when he found himself at the top of a stairwell. He didn't stop moving though. He went on down, as quickly as he could without falling. When he got to the bottom he looked around at all the junk in the basement. There wasn't a way out he could see except the stairs back up. And that was in the direction of Patrick.

He moved further into the basement thinking there might be a door somewhere on the other side. There was so much stuff, he couldn't see over or past it all. Then he heard something move somewhere off to his right. The boy thought about calling out but it could be Patrick. If he got mad over dolls he'd really be mad if he found Michael in the basement with all his other stuff.

He ducked under a nearby table and sat down. He pulled his knees up to his chin and wondered what to do. Then he heard another noise. Something was definitely moving out there. He saw a sharp scrap of metal on the floor within reach and picked it up. When he looked back to the basement he found himself face to face with the ugliest baby in the world. It made the dolls upstairs look pretty by comparison.

It was Thaddeus and he'd found Michael.

...

Constance, Jeremiah and Billie Dean sat at the table having their third round of tea. Between Billie Dean and the priest they were able to get Constance to understand she was in fact dead. Jeremiah had tried for two days on his own; he was glad to have some assistance that the woman would listen to.

"The only thing I can figure," Billie Dean said. "Is that whatever makes your old home a magnet... has spread to this lot as well. From the way it's pushing at the fabric of reality, it's trying to grow more."

"Where's Michael?" Constance asked. She realized when she got to the bottom of her cup that she hadn't heard him in a while.

"Upstairs playing," Father Jeremiah said. He got up. "I'll go check on him."

He left the kitchen. Billie Dean lit a cigarette and Constance followed suit.

"I always thought if I died it would be over there," said Constance with a bitter smile. "I just assumed I'd be trapped there too."

Billie Dean tapped the tip of her cigarette against the side of the ashtray. "Have you left the house since your death?"

Constance shook her head. "I haven't had a reason. Jeremiah runs all the errands for me. He's such a saint."

"Some spirits can roam free but most are attached to a place," her clairvoyant friend said. "Or a person. Sometimes both. You should see if you can leave."

"Are you going to stay for the funeral?"

Billie Dean smiled and put her hand over Constance's nearest one. "Of course."

Constance smiled and brushed the woman's fingers with her thumb in silent thanks. Then she sucked on her cigarette and exhaled smoke in a sigh. "If I can leave the house, I think I'll go along. There's somethin' tragically romantic about attendin' your own burial."

"Michael's not upstairs," Father Jeremiah said on his return to the kitchen. "He's not in the house. Did he go out back?"

Constance breezed over to the back door and opened it. "Michael?" she called. She waited a moment and when there was no response, she raised her voice to a shout. "Miiiiichaaaael!"

There was still no response. Constance swept back over to the table and snuffed her cigarette in the ashtray. Then she headed for the front of the house. The other two followed her.

"Where do you think he is?" Billie Dean asked. She could tell her friend was moving with a purpose.

"I know where he is," said Constance. She didn't sound happy. She paused to look at Billie Dean. "You wanted to know if I can leave this place? Well. We're about to find out."

* * *

Author's Note:

My beta kind of freaked out when she got to the part about Rubber Man. This made me glad. Rubber Man freaks me out. But not as much as Constance on the warpath. She still scares me more than anything in the whole series.

This chapter's title_ Little Monsters_ is also the name of a really bad horror-comedy film from the 80's starring Fred Savage and Howie Mandel. _Monsters Inc._ did the idea much better.

There are 2 more chapters in this episode. Episode 4 is finished, edited and ready to go.


	6. Chapter 6 - Rational Fears

**2018 - Two days after the earthquake (cont.)**

Patrick and Tate decided to take the suit out to the shed. The sinkhole was silent but had a weird magnetic feel, like it could pull in whatever got too close to the edge. The city had put a barricade around it as a public service that consisted of four sawhorses and some yellow CAUTION tape. One piece of the yellow cordon had already broken. Both Patrick and Tate avoided the area without conscious intent, giving it wide berth on the way out to the storage shed.

In the old shed they located an old trunk and dumped the contents on the floor. Patrick found some old bungee cords and electrical tape. It was the best they could do.

"Okay," said Tate. "I'm gonna take this thing off now. You ready?"

Patrick braced his stance and nodded.

Tate stripped. He wadded the rubber suit up and hurled it into the open trunk. Patrick slammed the lid down and they both grabbed a bungee cord and wrapped as fast as they could. Then Pat tipped the trunk on its end and Tate wrapped the center of it in the electrical tape. Patrick set the trunk back down on its bottom and they both watched it closely.

After a couple of minutes passed without a sound from the trunk they began to relax a little.

"Let's leave it out here for now," Pat said. "Nobody needs to know where this thing is."

Tate nodded and then looked down at himself. "I don't know where my clothes went when I went inside the suit. It was weird. It's like I went into this black space between... space. Like being inside the walls. Getting into the suit was like... it was like... um. There was this big fat squishy invisible thing inside it and I had to push that out to get in." He tipped his head curiously. "Do you think it's got my clothes on now? Since I took its'?"

Patrick gave him a peculiar look. "I... don't know. Go put some clothes on. Then come help me move my stuff inside. I don't want to leave it out here. We'll stick it in the attic. Then we can figure out what to do about the suit."

Tate nodded and disappeared. Patrick looked at the trunk. He decided it needed a lot more electrical tape.

...

Tate, still in teen form, looked at himself in the dressing mirror. He straightened the collar of his father's sweater. He had a few of them that he'd salvaged from his mother's donation bags. They were the only long-sleeved tops he wore that he didn't pick apart the sleeves of. They were also the ugliest sweaters he had. Straight out of the 70's.

The one he wore now didn't go with the Chad-approved Guess t-shirt beneath it but he wore it anyway. The sweaters were all he had left of his father. They had gotten him through many of life's ups and downs. After the Rubber Man weirdness he needed a little reassurance.

Then he felt her presence and she was madder than hell.

"Mama." Fear shot through Tate. He'd never felt her presence without searching for her before. "Oh, shit. Michael. Oh no, oh no."

He tried to think but panic set in. He didn't know where Michael was. His mother was on the porch. He started crying. He forced himself to calm down and tried again to think. He grabbed his hair. If she was here and mad then she probably knew where Michael was. Which was good. Unless he got hurt. Which would be bad.

Tate started crying again. Then he angrily smudged his cheeks with his sleeves. He didn't have time for tears. He paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. Then he could hear her. She was inside the house and calling him. She was mad at him.

He disappeared and reappeared downstairs in the hollow place under the stairs near the basement door. He peeked out into the entryway. Constance was there and she had Billie Dean and Father Jeremiah with her. She saw him as soon as he saw her. She marched right over to the teen, looking every bit as angry as he was afraid she was.

"Is he here?" Constance demanded, reaching for him.

Tate shrank into himself. "He came over on his own. I didn't ask him to."

"Where is he?" said Constance. She grabbed a handful his shirt and sweater and pulled him closer.

Tate didn't answer. She smacked him on the head, making him flinch and surprising Father Jeremiah.

"Where _is_ he?" she demanded again.

Jeremiah went over to where Constance and the teen were. He suffered a vague sense of deja vu when looking at the young man but the situation kept him from thinking much of it.

"Constance, do you think that's appropriate?" the priest asked, concerned. He'd had to intervene on Michael's behalf before, more than once, but he never imagined he'd have to stop her hitting a neighbor. It was bad enough that they'd barged in without being invited.

She glared at him. "He's my son. And he knows where Michael is."

Jeremiah was confused. "Your son? You have a son?"

Tate was hurt by the insight. It was one thing to have her not visit much. But to not talk about him with someone she was living with really bit deep. So he said the first thing he could think of that would hurt her back. "I don't know where Michael is."

She looked at him hard, searching his face for the truth beyond his hurt anger. She lifted her chin. "You'd better find him. Now."

Tate's frown darkened. Tears glimmered in his eyes but he didn't blink in order to keep them from falling. He concentrated and could feel Michael's presence somewhere below. He turned and let himself into the basement without another word to his mother.

"Michael?" he called as he went down. He shifted to his Ethan aspect and stepped off the stairs. "Michael?"

Then he saw him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Thaddeus and Shelly sat with him in an approximate circle. They were all just staring at each other. It was kind of weird.

"Michael?" Ethan said and put a hand on his shoulder.

The other boy snapped his head to the side to focus on Ethan. There was a strange look in his eyes but it faded when he saw who was touching him. "Why's your brother 'n sister in the basement?"

Ethan looked at the ghoulish babies. They had also had stopped staring and were now crawling away into the gloom of the basement. The answer to Michael's innocent question was too complicated so he just didn't answer it.

"Mama Constance is upstairs," he said. "She's mad 'cause you came over by yourself."

Michael's eyes widened. He had intended to sneak back before she knew he was gone but the Patrick scare and then the babies... He'd lost track of how long he'd been in the house. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairs but he stopped at the bottom when he saw Ethan wasn't following him.

"Aren't you coming?" Michael asked.

Ethan didn't want to. But he knew he had to go up. His mother would go nuclear if he hid from her. He hugged himself with his father's sweater and followed Michael up the stairs.

Constance was waiting at the doorway to the stairs like a snake waiting to snap up bats. As soon as Michael emerged she grabbed him by the arm and started slapping his backside. He put his hands back to shield himself but she was far too experienced for such a defense. She back-handed them out of the way with her ringed knuckles while raining more blows on his bottom at the same time. He started to yell.

"You never _ever_ leave the house without telling a grownup first!" she scolded hysterically as she hit him. "You know better! I was scared to death! Did you go out the window?" She gave him a rough shake then hit him some more. "Is that what you did?"

Michael just hollered. Ethan cowered back in the shadows, afraid she'd notice him. He felt bad that the other boy was in trouble but he'd seen more helpless victims under his mother's brutal hand. He didn't want to be next.

"Constance!" Jeremiah said. He put a hand on her arm though he didn't actually try to stop her hitting. "I really think we should go home."

She snapped out of her rage-haze enough to recognize his logic and nodded. She let go of Michael who started bawling. Constance patted her hair though it didn't help. She didn't look at Ethan at all. "Michael won't be coming over for a while."

She put her hand between Michael's shoulders then and pushed him to where Billie Dean was still standing right next to the front door. Constance ushered her grandson out of the house with Father Jeremiah following. Billie Dean met Ethan's eyes.

"I know who you are," she said. Her voice was calm, almost hypnotic. It drew the boy further out of the alcove. She regarded him steadily. "You need to stay away from that child. It's bad enough that you brought him into this world. Don't make things worse."

"I wouldn't hurt him!" The tears he'd held back earlier began to fall. It just made him madder.

Billie Dean took a step backward toward the door. She dealt with few spirits that scared her like Tate did. He was the reason she stayed near the entryway. "You will hurt him if you keep bringing him here."

"I didn't bring him here!" Tate yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You're pretty fucking stupid for a psychic, bitch! Get out! Get outta my house!"

She retreated outside. The door slammed right in front of her. She stumbled back, turned and quickly left the porch.

Tate cried for a bit longer then forced himself to suck it up. He shifted back to his 17-year-old seeming and scrubbed his hands through his hair. Then he willed himself into the garden shed where Patrick had already moved everything except the weight bench. He was sitting on the bench and looking at the back of an old record album. He looked up when Tate appeared.

"What took you so long?" he said irritably, tossing the record into a nearby box. Then he saw the look on Tate's face. "What's wrong?"

"My stupid cock-sucking mother," he said with a sniffle. "She yelled at me because Michael was here without her permission."

"Why was he in the front room by himself?"

Tate looked at him blankly. He didn't want questions. He wanted support. "I just was going to show him my stuff."

Patrick peered at him. "You left him alone in a haunted house so you could show him some 'stuff'?"

That was another question. Tate chewed on his thumbnail. "I didn't want to take him to the attic because it's not real safe."

"So your solution was to leave him by himself. While you were gone that thing," Patrick motioned to the trunk he'd triple-layered in electrical tape. "Almost grabbed him. If I hadn't been there it would've..." He shook his head and refused to speculate. "Who knows what the hell something like that would do. I can't believe you left him alone. Do you want him to die?"

Tate frowned. He felt like he was having a rehash of the conversation with the psychic. "No."

"Then act like it." Pat shot him a no-nonsense look and got to his feet. "Come on. Let's get this bench out of here."

They moved the thing inside the house and into a corner of the attic where Pat had put the rest of his stuff. Once he'd gotten it put together the way he liked he sat back down on the bench.

"So what should we do with that suit?" asked Tate. He hopped up on a nearby storage box.

Patrick shook his head. "What can we do with it? Burn it, maybe."

"Ew. Burnt rubber."

"It may be our only choice," said Pat. "We can't throw it away. I can't send something like that out into the world."

"I don't think it'd let you." Tate pulled a knee up and started to pick at a tiny snag in his jeans. "Can we make a fire hot enough to burn it before it kicks our asses?"

Patrick frowned. "It won't kick our asses. Who's in the box?"

"Hey," Tate brightened. His expression was rendered manic thanks to the recent crying. "You're right. _We_ kicked _its _ass!"

"It didn't seem to fight when you took it off. Maybe that's a good sign?"said Patrick.

"But what made it move around by itself?"

They both looked at each other.

"The only person I've seen in it lately," Patrick said at last. "Was Ben. But that definitely was not Ben."

Tate managed to tug a string free from the knee of his jeans. "Maybe we could just throw it down that sinkhole. The property sales-people're going to fill it in. Right? Can't we just bury it?"

Pat thought about that. "Maybe." Then he shook his head. "I'd rather just burn the whole thing."

"Maybe we could set it on fire then push it into the hole?" suggested Tate.

"Only after we're sure it's actually burning."

Tate nodded. "We can cover it in gasoline from the mower. Or there's some kerosene in the hurricane lamps in the upstairs hall. You know what? We could mix 'em up. That'd really burn."

"You go get the kerosene," said Pat. "I'll get the gas and the trunk. Meet me at the hole."

And they did just that. The fire blazed up nicely, attracting Mrs. Harvey and her girls and Hayden with her baby. They watched it till the smoke turned black and foul and the trunk was completely engulfed in flames. Then Patrick used a shovel to push it into the sinkhole. It disappeared into the well of darkness.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Give me Rubber Man over Constance any day. Ghost mom from hell. If you stuffed her up in a trunk, set fire to it and shoved it down a hole... Do you think she'd go away? Or would it just make her mad?

Next chapter is the last one for this episode. It's about the same length as the one before this one and tied directly to the rest of this multi-chapter scene so I'll be publishing it soon. Thanks for the reviews and feedback. I love hearing from you!


	7. Chapter 7 - Ever After

**2018 - Two days after the earthquake (cont.)  
**

"Billie Dean, this is my godson, Michael," Constance introduced her grandson formally once they'd arrived at their house. "I'm sorry you had to meet him like this."

The boy in question was still grumpy over the reception he'd received on coming out of the basement. He didn't smile at the medium when she looked at him. She tried to smile but the look was thin. While he was a living presence, he felt too much like Tate to her. The darkness was on him, if not in him. It was Michael who brought the darkness to Constance's house, Billie Dean was sure of it.

"Boys will be boys," Billie Dean said. She lit a cigarette.

"I'm goin' to get him cleaned up," said Constance, putting a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Jeremiah? Could you call for a pizza? I don't feel like cookin'."

The priest nodded and went to the phone. Constance escorted the boy out of the room and Billie Dean sat down at the table. She pulled the ashtray over. Once the pizza order was put in Jeremiah joined her at the table. He peeked into his teacup. It still had tea in it but it was stone cold. He set the cup back down and folded his hands. He looked over at Billie Dean and found her looking at him.

She picked at her manicured nails absently while she studied him. "What are you?"

"I'm a priest," he answered.

She smiled. "Well, yes. But..." She paused. Her plucked brows furrowed slightly. "You... do know you're special. Don't you?"

"Everyone is special," Jeremiah said. "In his or her own way."

Billie Dean peered at him. "Are you here to protect him?" she asked bluntly, if quietly. She didn't want Constance to hear. "Or to protect the world from him?"

Jeremiah didn't answer immediately. "Both. Neither." He shrugged. "I was sent here by my Order to see that a prophecy is fulfilled."

Billie Dean's lips tightened. She tapped her ash in the ashtray then pulled another drag from the filter. "Is it all ending?"

He shrugged again. "I don't believe so. But then... no story truly ends. It simply makes way for the next one." He paused, then added: "We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. First Corinthians."

"I could make a mint writing a book about this," the medium said. She didn't really mean it. It just helped her not think about the gravity of things.

"You wouldn't be the first."

Billie Dean laughed softly and lit another cigarette. "No, I guess I wouldn't."

...

"You know the rule," Chad said sternly.

The man sat on the stool in front of the dressing mirror, hairbrush in hand. Tate, in his child seeming, stood a few feet away, arms folded and an unhappy look on his face.

"It's not fair!" the boy protested, tears in his eyes. "I was helping Pat and I forgot. Can't I just try and fix it now?"

Chad fixed him with a hard look. "What is the rule, Tate?"

Tate shifted his weight. "I'm supposed to fix my hair before you see me," he said grudgingly.

"And yet this continues to be a problem," said Chad. "You can remember the rule so it's not a memory issue, obviously. So I know you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not!" Tate insisted. "I haven't done it in forever!"

Chad arched a brow. "You did just two nights ago. I ignored it then and look where we are."

"Are you serious? There was an _earthquake _then!"

"There wasn't an earthquake today."

"We were getting rid of that stupid suit!" exclaimed Tate. He blinked away tears of frustration. "That's as bad as an earthquake! And my mom showed up too! And Michael!"

"On a certain level I agree with you," said Chad. "But you had plenty of time to fix your hair between then and dinner."

Tate glowered. How could he argue with someone who knew he was being unreasonable?

"Well?" Chad said, lowering his chin a little as his brows went higher. "Are you going to come here? Or shall we just let Patrick handle this?"

Tate trudged over like he was going to be executed. He hated how Chad always used Patrick like a cattle prod, mostly because it always worked. Nine times out of ten Pat sided with Chad, even if Tate was right. Tate didn't like gambling on odds like that unless it really mattered.

He tugged his pajama bottoms down and flopped across the man's lap. Then he covered his face with his hands. He could already feel his cheeks turning red. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"Now you know exactly how I feel," Chad said.

Chad didn't like violence. However, he'd reached his wit's end long ago with the hair war. He didn't really want to let Pat deal with the situation because he'd be too rough but intervention was necessary. So he did what he did best: He embarrassed the hell out of the boy. He delivered several sharp swats to the seat of Tate's underpants with the flat side of the hairbrush.

It only stung a little. It was the humiliation that made it hurt. Chad's idea of spanking was mortifying. When the man let him up Tate tugged his pajama pants up and braced for the lecture that was sure to follow. He would have preferred to go hide somewhere dark and alone. He smudged his cheeks with the back of his arm but more tears replaced the dampness.

"This is all on you, Tate," Chad said as he rose. "You know what you're supposed to do. You know the consequences if you don't. We can stop this anytime you're ready to be a big boy and do what you're supposed to."

With a hand on his shoulder Chad physically guided the child onto the stool and turned the brush on his messy blond hair. Tate glared at his lap. He didn't want to see the mirror. "I hate the way you make my hair."

"Do I look like I care?" the black-haired man said without hesitation. "I've told you time and again I am _not_ going to foster Kurt Cobain Junior."

"Kurt Cobain made great music," Tate grumped.

"Tell you what. When _you_ start writing great music and making millions of dollars, then you can wear your hair in whatever ugly way you want," said Chad.

Tate sulked. "Ow!" he protested at a particularly severe yank. "My mom let me do my hair however I wanted."

Chad paused brushing to look at Tate like he'd grown a second head. "You are not _seriously_ going to bring her into this, are you? First: Look at her hair. Enough said right there. Second: Look at where Mommie Dearest's parenting got you."

Tears welled up in Tate's eyes but his sulk remained intact.

Chad went back to viciously rearranging Tate's hair.

...

Later that night Father Jeremiah sat with Michael who was already tucked in. The priest would usually tell the boy a bedtime story but never one from the shelf. Never one that most children his age would hear.

"...and when the dragon fell from the heavens, it swept a third of the stars down to earth with it," Jeremiah concluded.

"Did they burn out?" Michael asked.

Jeremiah smiled. "No. They learned how to move among men. Some even married and had children. But God didn't like that."

"Why not?"

The priest shrugged. "No one really knows. We only know that it wasn't supposed to happen."

That didn't make sense to the boy. "Then why did it?"

"Because it did," said the priest. He ruffled Michael's hair. "Time to sleep."

He tucked the boy in and promised Mama Constance would be along soon to give him his cookie and kiss. Then he let himself out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. He went over to the window and looked out into the night, over at the dark house next door.

**...**

**1986**

It had been a long, traumatic day in the Langdon household but it was finally over. Mama had fed the family and, suffering from guilt that inevitably followed one of her tirades, she'd allowed Tate another night in her room in front of the television. This time they watched together. They lay tucked under the thick quilt with her loving arms around him, his head on her satin-covered breast. Occasionally she would pet his hair or skin. For Tate every precious second helped wash away the horror of a day spent locked in the closet. He fell asleep there, listening to her heartbeat, one thumb touching his lower lip.

**...**

**1980**

Ben sat in front of the doctor's desk, his hands clasped between his knees. The doctor closed the file folder and smiled at the dark-haired 19-year-old.

"We've come a long way, haven't we?" he said.

Ben smiled. "Yes, we have, Doctor Lanyon."

"Have you decided what you're going to do?"

"I have," said Ben. "I'm going to take that scholarship they offered. I want to be a therapist, like you."

Dr. Lanyon's smile broadened with pride. "Good for you. I think you're making the right choice, Ben. I never would have thought it when I met you but... I think you'll be a good psychiatrist. You have a unique position to guide others from. You've seen both sides of the fence. And you know there's hope."

"If there's hope for someone like me," Ben agreed. "There's hope for anyone."

The doctor signed the release forms. Fifteen minutes later Ben Harmon was riding away from Kirkbride Hills psychiatric hospital in a taxi, toward his adult life.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

I hope I didn't rush the end here too quick for some of you. I told you I'm hopeless at self-restraint. I was a terror at Christmas as a child. But I'm excited to start episode 4 for you. So. Roll credits. Check my Profile for song suggestions.

FYI, Dr. Lanyon is also the name of a doctor that Jekyll killed in _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. It wasn't till after I wrote this and re-read it in editing that I noticed Lanyon is just two consonants removed from Langdon.

This episode ranked "Ernest Hemingway" at I Write Like... I followed Stephen King's advice on writing tersely. Hemingway was the father of terse. But as happy as it makes me to score a Hemingway, I think he would be horrified to have his writing compared to this nightmare. Who knows though.

Look for **Murder House Revisited, Episode 4: Blood Ties **soon. With family, nothing's thicker than blood.


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